Gave Way To Light
by Cohen101
Summary: Roger looks at Oz and smiles, grateful for this little punk’s unwelcome intervention in his get-drunk night. RogerSantaFe. Rent/BtVS don’t need to know Buff to read though


_A/N: Sort of a Buffy the Vampire Slayer crossover, but namely Rent- you don't need to know Buff to get it. Written for Diggy 'cause she wanted Oz and I wanted a Rent prompt..._

_**Gave Way To Light**_

The bar is dark and dank- it smells of heavy smoke and sex, but the beer is cheap so Roger stays. The lights are dimmed to look like an old 80s detective film and he finds himself inadvertently feeling a little like a detective. Hot on the trail- that was him. Hot on the trail of figuring out what the fuck he wanted with his life, what he wanted from his life.

There's a game of pool going on in the back of the bar between two men with overgrown facial hair; the crack of the cue ball hitting its target echoes throughout the establishment. Faint rock and roll provides the background music an completes the aloof atmosphere.

Roger takes another sip of two-dollar beer, letting the taste work its way around his mouth before swallowing. The liquid amber in the glass swirls around and he watches it lazily, manipulating it until it creates a miniature whirlpool. The flux act is comfortable and it gives him some semblance of control. It helps return a little bit of pseudo-power to his hands.

There are so many things that he can't control, can't predict. So many things that he has absolutely no control over, like a car spinning out on ice during the winter. It had happened to Roger once. The car went into an icy curve and started to drift; Roger, inexperienced then, slammed on the brakes hard. The action had done the opposite of what it'd been meant to do- just like Roger's attempt to help April get over her addiction had utterly failed, leaving them both in intense vulnerability and with the feeling of absolute helplessness.

The amber godsend tips back and falls from the glass like a diminutive waterfall, filling Roger's mouth once again; although this time when he swallows it, there's someone sitting next to him.

At first Roger doesn't bother looking at the person next to him. He's neither in the place nor mood to socialize, something the hazy bar seemed to promote against anyways. But when he notices the line of free chairs his curiosity is sparked and he has to see the newcomer that's chosen to sit by him.

Santa Fe lent itself to the romantic struggling artist façade, and this boy isn't an abnormality to that default. But it doesn't explain why the boy had chosen the particular seat, and why someone who was obviously underage was getting served at a bar.

"There's a full moon soon," the boy mutters, noticing Roger's glance. It sounds like an admission, but Roger's none the wiser as to what the boy is admitting to.

Why would a full moon be the cause of such dejection?

Ignoring the kid, Roger drains the rest of his beer in two gulps, placing the empty on the counter and gesturing for the bartender to get him another one. Tonight, he decides, he goes to sleep smashed. After he receives his refill, the boy is still looking at him. "What?" he asks gruffly, hoping that it scares the kid away.

"Nothing," the boy mutters with a heavy sigh.

They sit in silence for a minute. The mellow ambiance the alcohol had given Roger quickly morphs into irritation and before long Roger feels the eyes burning into the side of his head once again. "What?" he asks again, annoyed.

If he wanted to be stared at while he drank he would've stayed in New York where Mark would do it _and_ provide the alcohol.

A stab of guilt riffles through him when he thinks that and he reminds himself to forget about it.

The boy looks at him for another second before sighing grimly. "I'm Oz," he introduces, offering a hand. Roger looks at it and after a moment scoffs,

"Listen kid, I'm not here to make friends. If I wanted friends I wouldn't be here."

"Where would you be?" Oz ask after a moment.

Roger leans back on the barstool and prays for patience. What he really wants to do is turn around and walk to the end of the bar counter where he can be alone. So he doesn't know why he says, "New York." And he really doesn't know why he continues the conversation with, "You?"

Oz hesitates before answering. "Sunnydale, California."

With a nod Roger picks up his pint and takes a sip of beer, feeling the beginnings of his mellow return. As long as the kid doesn't-

"What's your name?"

Roger places the glass back down on the table with a groan, perhaps putting a bit more force behind it than is entirely necessary. Some liquid splashes onto the counter and he catches a disapproving scowl from the bartender. "What's your deal?" he demands. If he'd wanted an interrogation, he would've stayed in New York. If he wanted companionship, he would've stayed in New York.

If he wanted to face his problems, if he wanted confrontation, he would've stayed in New York.

Damn if this kid was going to make it all be for nothing.

It did seem to conveniently be on his itinerary though. "Well I told you mine," Oz says, providing a pretty logical argument. "I think it's only fair you return the favor."

"It's only a favor if you ask for it," Roger growls. Oz continues to stare at him imploringly and he finally caves.

"Roger," Oz repeats thoughtfully, tapping the side of the glass. It makes a slight clinking sound and Roger notices that Oz's fingernails have a coat of chipping black on them. Strawberry blond hair, painted fingernails and a leather wrist cuff- something about this kid made Roger think of his younger self.

Then Oz asks, "Ever wonder what the meaning of this all is?" and Roger thinks 'Never mind'.

"All of what?"

"This. Everything around us; why things happen the way they happen… the meaning of life."

Yeah, Roger thinks, I'm definitely not that inquisitive. "My friend used to be a philosophy professor down at MIT," he syas out loud, the connection between brain and mouth fading now that he felt the alcohol taking effect.

Oz waits a moment for Roger to continue before prompting him with a, "Really?"

"Yeah," Roger nods. He takes a sip of his beer and says, "You should ask him your question."

Oz looks around the bar and Roger feels an amused smile surface. "I've got this feeling that's not exactly possible right now," Oz mutters and Roger shrugs,

"Told you- if I wanted friends, I wouldn't be here."

Oz turns around in his seat so that he can make eye contact with Roger and Roger meets his gaze with reluctance. He's surprised to find the boy looking at him so earnestly. There is need behind the bright green eyes, a troubled soul desperately reaching out and groping for any form of an answer. A need for some reassurance, some thing to make things less confusing… Roger knows the feeling- knew the feeling, the one that was seeking anything or anyone to make things seem less obsolete and helpless.

"Then why are you here Roger?" Oz asks softly, his voice cracking, desperation in it that Roger's too well versed in. The lack of an answer brings upon another series of questions, ones Roger isn't as comfortable with. "What are you looking for? What do you need to find so that you can… go back to them?"

This kid desperately needs Roger to help him- if not to save him then at least to tell him not to slam on the brakes in a drift.

Empathy fills Roger's body and for the first time since he's left New York City he finds himself longing for his friends. Why had he left? What was he looking for? What was it he was searching for before he could go back? What had he run away from?

"It's not that easy kid," he mutters, unable to look Oz in the eye any longer. "If I knew, I wouldn't be here," he whispers.

"But how do you know when you find it, if you find it?" Oz presses, refusing to let Roger be. "How do you know when it's safe to go back?"

"You're preaching to the choir kid," Roger says tiredly and rubs his face with the palms of his hands. When had his quiet get-drunk night gotten so profound and insightful? "I'm looking for just as many answers as you are."

"So let's help each other out," Oz suggests, looking up at Roger hopefully. "Help each other figure out what we gotta do."

The kid isn't by any means sitting on the edge of his seat, but he is the most excited Roger has seen him yet, and he has a feeling that it's as excited as the boy every got. "Why do you care so much?" Roger asks, curious where all this energy is coming from.

He doesn't mean the question in malice and Oz doesn't take any offense to it, but he does deflate substantially. With two hands Oz moves to grip his beer solidly, staring through the thick glass like he's focused on a picture behind it, a picture only he can see.

"Because…" And then it all pours out of Oz and Roger can just sit there and listen to the candid, impromptu speech. "There's this girl. And she's the most amazing thing in my life. I love her more than anything in the world and everywhere I go, it's like I see her. I see her in the things people do, in the way they look, the way they talk, walk, breathe, move- I see her everywhere and right now the only thing I want in the entire world is to be with her. But I can't. And it hurts so much I feel like… like I'm dying. Like I've got a demon that's eating me slowly from the inside. I love her, and it kills me more than anything in the universe that… that I can't be with her."

"I have a girl too," Roger admits softly as he shifts so he can stare at his drink as well. Everything that Oz has said- he feels that too, for Mimi.

For a moment they are each in their own minds, sitting beside one another, silent and damaged.

Oz is the first to speak. "Then let's figure this out together."

Everything in Roger's body is screaming to agree, screaming to get him back to New York where he belongs while he still has the chance, but he can't bring himself to be optimistic. This Oz kid didn't understand that if he went back to New York, he'd have to face things that he would rather remain covert.

"Look," he says, hoping he sounds apologetic and genuine because he really is, "These problems that you're having, I'm sorry, but I can't help you. I can't even help myself, much less you. I ran away so I didn't have to be a part of it."

"So you're content with just standing on the edges of life, looking in?" Oz asks angrily and Roger yells,

"I don't know!"

The entire bar quiets down for a moment and Roger receives another angry glare from the bartender.

Suddenly, everything falls into place.

"Oz," he says, sitting up straighter, hoping that this flash of understanding isn't just the result of alcohol and emotional adrenaline, "You need to make a connection. You need to hold onto whatever shred of emotion you have- you need to hold on to your… I don't know, humanity or some shit like that. You can't disengage and always be on the edge looking in- that's what I'm doing here, and it's not working. I've just traded places with Mark…"

And Roger realizes that as long as he has a connection, the inky mass of loss and death and fear has nothing on him. He has a connection with Mimi, with Mark, with Collins, even still with Angel- and as long as he has those connections, he'll be fine. For once the darkness gives way to light and Roger realizes he's become just what he'd accused Mark of being- detached.

"You're never alone Oz, that's what my answer is." At some point Roger must have slid off his seat, because he finds himself standing. "Thanks kid," he says, throwing down some money for their drinks. Roger looks at Oz and smiles, grateful for this little punk's unwelcome intervention on his get-drunk night. "Thank you."

Roger runs out the door and Oz sighs, wondering what has just happened. Everything Roger had said sounded great and uplifting and inspiring but… but he knew it already and it didn't fix his problem:

There was a full moon soon.

_A/N: For those of you who don't know, Oz is a character from Buffy who's a werewolf and leaves his girlfriend Willow (and the show) because he doesn't know who he is and doesn't want to hurt her (and the others)…_


End file.
